Secrets
by TruffleHead
Summary: Lyra moves into London with quite a secret. Soon she finds herself in the middle of a cruel game in which she's sought after by two of the smartest people on Earth: Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty. And neither of them like to lose.
1. An Introduction

**Why hello! I'm a little disappointed with this story, as a writer (I know, great way to start it out, huh?), but I do think that it helped me improve my writing skill a bunch, so that's something. Thank you for reading. **

Sitting in the café across the street from 221, Sherlock sat gazing out the window, deep in thought. The current case was particularly puzzling, and after five days of next to no food or sleep, John had forced him to go have a little bite to eat, "else you will starve to death," John had said. Sherlock smirked, finding this whole thing ridiculous. John knows digestion slows him down; yet he had been so persistent that Sherlock had finally agreed to go to the café and get a sandwich, for god's sake!

His supposed "lunch" lay uneaten on a plate in front of him, his tea untouched as he looked out onto the street, mulling over every suspect and clue of the case. Again. After about a half hour he gave into his rumbling stomach and took a tiny bite of his sandwich. And then another few.

The meal, though slightly bland, was satisfying and helped ease his ebbing hunger. His brain, given the energy, was actually starting to think more efficiently...

Sherlock jumped up, shouting, "Of course! It was the gardener's son!" Many people around him looked up, startled and a bit frightened. They knew Sherlock Holmes, however, and had grown slightly wary of his behavior. Sitting down, trying not to admit to himself that John had been right about needing food, he muttered to himself, "The socks, oh how stupid of me, the SOCKS!"

After texting Lestrade with the news, he looked up to observe someone he had never seen before walk in. He took a minute to assess her; after all, the case was over with and he was already growing bored.

She was new in town- that much he knew for certain. He notices and stores away all the faces he sees wandering the streets, and she was nowhere to be found in his little hard drive of a brain.

The girl had dark, reddish- brownish hair that fell, slightly erratically, in soft waves that stopped an inch or two below her shoulders. A small, neatly woven braid is pulled back by a gold clip that compliments her hair color. Her delicate yet dark eyebrows arch easily over her deep, powerful emerald green eyes that seem to literally shine. Her features are slim and elfish, the corners of her mouth turning up into a teasing smile.

A loose, wavy brown skirt ends a bit beyond the knee, and above it is a fairly modest looking, dark purple t-shirt. Simple brown flip- flops are filled with shimmering silver toenails that match her fingertips exactly. A locket hangs around her neck.

He guessed she was a writer, or an artist; something more freelance and creative going by her energetic, self- confident step. She would not want to be contained by a job like a secretary. No ring; she had no husband. She didn't eye other men, however, so a boyfriend then.

Sherlock looked out the window again, bored. Not long after, though, he felt a light tap on his shoulder. He turned around sharply. It was the girl in the brown skirt.

"Sorry sir, but are there any gardens within a three mile radius?" she asked him.

"No." he said, wondering why she needed to ask him such a unnecessary question as he turned back to look out the window.

Sherlock started as he saw the familiar face of John walking over to the café after leaving 221. Probably come to check that he'd actually eaten anything.

He hears the girl behind him say with a smile in her voice, "Well that's rather depressing."

Sherlock turns around again, annoyed. "Do you need something?"

She raises her eyebrows at him, surprised at his tone. "Well," she says, looking around Sherlock's shoulder, "I wouldn't mind meeting your friend."

John entered the restaurant, and spotting Sherlock, walked quickly to him. "Sherlock, did you even eat anything? Lestrade texted-" John stopped, spotting the girl Sherlock had been talking to.

"Oh! I don't believe we've met. John Watson," he said, extending his hand politely.

"Lyra Nonark. Pleasure to meet you." She said, shaking his hand. "Thank you for your help," she says, nodding to Sherlock. She smiled, then said goodbye and left.

"Who," said John, "was that?"

Sherlock didn't answer; he paid for his food started to leave. John trailed behind him.

"You hardly ever just talk to girls." John said to Sherlock, determined to get some sort of information.

"I wasn't talking to her. She asked me an unnecessary question and kept on talking to me even after I gave her an answer." Sherlock said, slightly exasperated.

John sighed. "That means," he said, "she must have liked you."

Sherlock huffed as he unlocked the door to their flat. John was still sputtering behind him.

"What 'unnecessary' question did she ask you?" John called up to Sherlock.

"She asked me if there were any gardens nearby." Sherlock said in a bored tone, already tired if this conversation. He went over to the couch and picked up his violin.

"Gardens?" John said, confused.

"John."

"What?"

"You're doing that repeating thing again." Sherlock said, and promptly started to play his violin.

**=^..^= TruffleHead  
**


	2. Surprising Surprises

Sherlock woke up with a headache and no case. The clock read 5.17. Perfect violin practice time!

A crabby John was out of bed two minutes later. After an attempt to scold Sherlock for waking him up at such an ungodly hour, he realizes it was useless and decides to go make some tea.

For the majority of the day, John turns his attention back and forth between a very bored Sherlock and an uninteresting magazine. Just after three, the doorbell rings.

Sherlock's head snaps up from his eyeball experiment. "John. The door." Unsatisfied with the lack of response, Sherlock continues, "Could be a client. John. John."

John throws his magazine on the coffee table. "Okay, fine; I'm going."

Sherlock smiles victoriously and continues poking at his eyeballs.

John opens the door to two sparkling green eyes. "Hello!" John says, giving her a smile. "Lyra, was it?"

"Yes," she said, recognizing John and returning the smile. "I have a case for Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock looked up as they entered the room. Lyra was holding a stack of envelopes and some pictures. She must have a case for him. Sherlock sighed, sure that it would bore him. He saw and automatically memorized her address on one of the envelopes then looked back down at the more exciting pile of eyeballs.

Something heavy dropped on the table in front of him, probably the stack of envelopes, and he flicked his eyes up in annoyance. Bold, calm green ones stared right back- with a bit of a smile in them. It unnerved him.

"Someone's been following me," Lyra said, pulling her eyes away and gesturing to the pile of letters. She picked one up. "He sends me... threats. I only just moved in, but I've gotten a ton of letters-"

"From whom?" Sherlock interrupted.

"Doesn't say. Signed only with an 'M.'" Lyra said.

Sherlock froze. "Moriarty," John whispered.

"Read," Sherlock ordered, in his serious tone where it was all anyone could do but comply.

Lyra hesitated before speaking. "This was the first one I got. I found it laying on my pillow the first day I arrived here." Then she started to read.

"Lyra. What a particular name. It is almost as beautiful as you." Her face was a grimace of disgust, but she continued on. "Your hair is your best feature. It's a shame it covers those beautiful ears, though.  
This is my number.  
(920) 231-4553  
I would advise you to call it- you know that I know. Up for dinner sometime?  
M."

A single phrase kept bouncing around in Sherlock's head: "I've got to get myself a live-in one. They must be so funny." Sherlock's face hardened with disgust.

"Did you call him?" Sherlock asked immediately, his voice angry. Lyra didn't think it was directed at her. Whoever Moriarty was, he wasn't one to underestimate.

"No." Lyra answered. She kept her voice clear of the spark of fear inside her that beginning to grow.

Sherlock stood up fast, ruffling his hair in concentration as he began to pace. "He'll know you've came to us," Sherlock muttered to himself. "He'll be angry. He knows where you live and there's no question of his abilities to get in. No telling what he'd do to you... John," he said, whipping around to face him. "She can't go back to her flat." he turned slowly to face Lyra. "You'll have to stay here for a while."

"Is he really that dangerous?" Lyra asks. Sherlock plops himself in his chair and steeples his hands under his nose, his mind far away, so instead John nods solemnly.

"Would you like some tea?" John asks a moment later, breaking the silence.

Lyra nods politely and answers, "Yes, thank you." John gets up to go make it.

Her eyes wander around and eventually land on Sherlock. They rest there a moment, admiring his dark, curly hair, but then he senses the look and turns his head.

"What did Moriarty mean- I know?" he asks, half his mind still thinking about Moriarty's mysterious 'threat'.

"I don't know." Lyra answers.

"You're lying."

"Yes."

John walks in with the tea. Lyra accepts the cup thankfully and takes a sip after making it cooler with the simple muttering of a word.

After a second, she realizes Sherlock is staring curiously at her, an eyebrow raised and his expression intrigued.

Shoot, she thought to herself. He noticed. Did I really think I could do magic in a room with one of the most intelligent people on the planet and expect him not to notice?

"The tea is still quite hot, don't you think, John?" Sherlock asks.

"Yeah, it's still way too- holy! Did you just drink that?" John says.

Lyra sets her cup down and says quietly, "I've a very tolerant tongue." It was plain to her she was already losing.

Sherlock leaned over and dipped his finger into her tea. She knew he noticed it was noticeably cooler. Stupid, stupid, stupid... Lyra was panicking now, but couldn't bring herself to say anything aloud. Sherlock had already figured it out. In a final act of surrender, she buried her face in her hands.

"Umm... sorry? Are you okay?" John said, not following.

Sherlock simply stood up and gently pulled her reddish brown waves back. Now you could clearly see two pointed ears that had previously hid there.

**I made Moriarty's phone number be Olive Garden's. (920) 231-4553 :) I am so cruel to my characters. ;)**

**Thank you all for reading. I shall hug you virtually. *hug* There you are. I hope you enjoyed that experience. **

**=^..^= TruffleHead**


	3. Nobody Likes Moriarty

Lyra pulled the sheets around her, wishing she could fall asleep and forget what had happened. She squeezed her eyes shut and remembered the conversation that had occurred just a few hours before.

"Lyra will sleep in my room." Sherlock had said in a tone that challenged anyone to say differently as he started to stand up.

"Sherlock-" Watson started, alarmed.

Sherlock gave John a look. "I'll sleep on the couch." Sherlock walked past Lyra, her pure green eyes meeting his icy gray- blue ones for just a second- and in that moment it's as if all his troubles are gone, replaced with a strange, unjustified feeling of... happiness. Sherlock, with more effort than he thought was reasonable, finally rips his eyes away and walks into the kitchen.

"Are you okay?" John asked Lyra, noticing her melancholy expression.

Lyra looked up at him, thankful for his efforts at being kind, but she couldn't ignore the fact that she was wrapped around their fingers now because of what they knew. And a crazy, apparently love-struck killer was out to get her. So she wasn't exactly jumping for joy.

"As okay as I can be with a murderer that even Sherlock is scared of after me." Lyra replied with a smile that tried to be cheerful.

"I'm not scared of him!" Sherlock shouted from the other room. There was a crash.

"And yet I can't even leave your flat because he knows where I live?" She shot back, turning around to face the kitchen.

"He's dangerous!" There was another crash. After a few moments he emerged from the kitchen with a pear. "He'll probably be coming around sometime soon, anyway." He said, his voice turning sarcastic. "Wouldn't want to miss out on all this fun."

"How right you are," a voice boomed from the hallway. Moriarty, Lyra thought. The dark form made its way into the living room. "My lovely Lyra. How are you?" He said, walking towards her.

"Would be better if I didn't have an insane criminal writing me love notes all the time," Lyra said.

"Love notes?" Moriarty raised an eyebrow, and then laughed. "Nicely put." He stepped even closer and reached out his hand.

There was no way she was getting touched by this man. Sherlock's hand was on her shoulder, ready to pull her away, but it didn't have to. She moved her fingers, and there was a burning noise as Moriarty withdrew his fingers, cursing.

"Mind your language," Sherlock said, taking his hand away and ploping himself once more in his chair, "There is a lady in the room." He took a crunchy bite out of his pear, which earned a look from John.

Moriarty looked up from his injured fingers, and Lyra was surprised to see a smile on his face. A full out, evil villain smile. "You realize I could kill you for that?" He said in a slow, menacing tone.

"I have two dogs," Moriarty continues.

Sherlock is out of his chair.

"That's all it'll take. Just two."

Sherlock walks over to Lyra.

"Just a snap of my fingers and they'll come running. And they will **rip **you apart. Limb. By. Limb." His face contorts more and more with each word, and then his face is suddenly filled with a relaxed smirk.

Sherlock spins Lyra around to face him.

Moriarty lifts his fingers up, ready to snap. "Unless, of course, my dear Lyra, you will come with me."

For a moment, all Sherlock does is look intently at Lyra, his eyes desperately trying to tell her something. His eyes flick over to Moriarty, then back to her. Lyra stares back, confusion clear on her face. Then Sherlock kisses her.

It wasn't a particularly romantic kiss. It was brief and careless, as if he was dared to do this and nothing more. It was much more than Lyra had ever thought- or maybe even hoped- this 'sociopath' could come up with, though, and anything seemed romantic next to rotting corpses. She realized how good of a kisser he was as the kiss deepened, and then, dragging Lyra out of her thoughts, Sherlock pulled away.

"Sorry to disappoint," Sherlock said to Moriarty, "but I'm afraid this one's already taken. I'm going to have to ask you to leave." Lyra was holding back the completely confused expression that wanted to show on her face. Instead, she replaced it with a so-there-you-have-it eyebrow raise.

Moriarty pouted. "You always get the good ones," he mumbled.

Watson had been sitting in his armchair, not noticing his gaping mouth.

Back in Sherlock's bed, Lyra yawned. After Moriarty had left with a promise to be back, Sherlock had acted as if nothing had happened. She didn't know what to think of him. Yes, he was handsome- oh, who was she kidding, he was drop-dead gorgeous, but he was way out of her league. The few petty magic tricks she could get by with were nothing next to his deductions.

She looked at the clock again. Five minutes had passed since she checked last- it was 2.09. She knew why she couldn't sleep. Lyra slipped out of bed and moved silently to the window, the robe she had borrowed swooshing behind her dramatically.

She looked out at the city with its bustling people with envy. What she wouldn't give for some fresh air. Or a garden.

Lyra sat there for a moment, pressing her fingers to the cold glass, then she walked, not making a sound, to the door. She wondered if Sherlock was asleep. If he was, it would be a simple matter of slipping past him. If not...

Opening the door just a crack, she peeked out. There he was, sitting up on the sofa, his hands steepled below his nose. Of course he noticed her.

"You're up early," He said, his gaze flickering over to Lyra and then back down.

Lyra stepped over to the chair and took a seat next to him. "I need to go outside." She said quietly, mindful of the sleeping Watson.

"No," he said, dismissing the idea with a shake of his head.

"Only for five minutes." She said, but he only shook his head again.

"Look," Lyra said, hating to use her race as an excuse, but it had come to that. It was like she was suffocating inside here, her chest crushing in on her. "Elves can't just stay inside forever." She touched her hand to her chest. "I need some fresh air. And a garden would be nice."

Sherlock looked up at Lyra as a wave of sympathy washed over him, surprising him. Hesitantly, he reached out his hand and put it on her knee- partly to comfort her, and partly because of something else within him that wanted to do so. "He'll be on you in an instant."

"I can't just stay cooped up inside here until Moriarty loses interest in me!" Lyra said, frustrated, the warm hand in her knee demanding most of her attention.

For an instant, Sherlock wondered if it would be terribly not good to kiss her again- but the thought was pushed away. He had no idea how she would react, and it scared him not to know.

"Oh, he's not that interested in you right now, now that he thinks I have you. He's not willing to fight that hard for a partner. Rather spend that time sponsoring murderers or terrorizing people. If you're just standing there all alone, though, he wouldn't miss his chance." Sherlock said, taking his hand away and leaning back.

Oh, Lyra thought. That was what that kiss was all for. Moriarty. A small part of her was crushed, while the majority admired the plan- he truly was brilliant. But she needed to go outside.

"Then come with me." She said, desperate. "Please?"

A confused and torn expression crossed his face as he looked at her. Was he actually reconsidering?

For reasons that he could not possibly figure out, this changed his mind. People very rarely said please to him, probably because he rarely said it himself. "Alright," He said softly, standing up.

Lyra was already by the door by the time he had gotten his coat on, and out the door before he was even on the stairs. Lyra didn't even have a full ten seconds to relish the feeling of the outdoors before she felt herself being pushed into a car.

Sherlock turned the handle, heard the scream, saw the door slam, and started to run.

For nearly three blocks he sprinted harder than he ever had, his lungs screaming to stop, before he lost track of the car- and a lot of the feeling in his legs.

**=^..^= TruffleHead  
**


	4. Love, Sociopaths, and Killers

~CHAPTER FOUR~  
Love, Sociopaths, and Killers- but no werewolves, I'm afraid :)

"Mycroft," he said, breathless, into the phone he had scrambled for with shaky hands moments before.

"Already on it." his brother replied as a sleek black car pulled up in front of him. Sherlock stumbled towards the car and got in as he listened to his brother, still talking on the phone.

"We've got people watching the car," Mycroft said, "we'll drive you where it's headed." The line disconnected.

It was no surprise to Sherlock that his brother was already onto things- with that power complex of his, he had people watching basically everywhere. Including his flat, he thought with a grimace.

A tense three minutes later, Mycroft's car screeched to a stop in front of an old warehouse.

Sherlock all but threw himself out of the car and ran up the steps. He ran up and down the aisles of junk, searching. Finally, he heard a scream and followed it downstairs, adrenaline pumping in his ears.

He entered the room quietly, although he was pretty sure Moriarty already knew he was there. Kneeling behind a huge crate, he listened for a few moments.

He gathered they were both sitting in chairs across from each other- although Lyra was tied up and a bit too close to the other for her liking.

"I don't understand," Moriarty's voice said in an innocent tone. Sherlock felt sick. He knew Moriarty didn't love Lyra- he just wanted to keep her close because he thought 'ordinary' humans were funny. But he thought she was special. She was an elf.

What Lyra wanted to say was, 'you kill people for the fun of it. And you're wondering why I'm not interested in you?' But she was not an idiot. Phrases like that made the probability of her survival go in the wrong direction.

"Well, I just..." Her voice trailed off. She couldn't think of another reason of why she didn't like him. One that he would accept. He sure was handsome. And smart. And had quite a sense of humor, too. But he was a murderous maniac and she would never, _ever_have him.

"It's him, isn't it," Moriarty said, alluding to her 'relationship' with Sherlock, disgust on his face and in his voice. Sherlock knew where he was going with this, and he started thinking fast.

"Sherlock and I aren't-" Lyra started to say.

Moriarty stood up, angry, obviously not buying it. "Why don't you just come out then, you coward?" He growled. Lyra's pure green eyes flickered over to Sherlock emerging from behind the crate, and her heart fluttered as she remembered the kiss.

"So there he is. Your little lover boy. You know what would be fun?" He paused to glare at Sherlock as he prepared to say the punch line Sherlock was waiting for.

"If I killed him right now. I think this occasion enough, don't you?"

Panicking, Lyra tried to do any sort of magic, but nothing was working. She had used most of her energy up when she was being brought here. Moriarty was walking slowly over to where Sherlock was standing. She shook at the thought of the things he could be planning.

To her amazement, Sherlock was as calm as ever, and his face indifferent. He started to say, "Lyra, I think-"

Lyra cut him off as she thought of a solution. She started to laugh.

Moriarty turned around, annoyed. "Please stop that. I'm trying to murder someone here."

"It's just that," Lyra spoke between rather convincing fake giggles, "you actually think I like him." More hysterical laughter, and then a teasing, "him?" She calmed down a bit. "I'm surprised you didn't see it right away. Fall in love with a sociopath? I thought the whole scheme was rather obvious. Oh, kiss me so he'll lose interest in me and maybe not set his wild dogs on us."

Moriarty looked strangely pleased. Lyra thought Sherlock was doing a great job looking hurt; it really added to the effect.

With a little bit more effort, Lyra added, "Do you really want to go on a date? I mean, you're a little... out of my league, if you know what I mean. That's why I wouldn't come with you before... You'd probably lose interest in me in an instant." She said, shyness coloring her voice as she spoke these words to the wrong person. And the wrong person responded.

"Yes, I think I am familiar with that term," Moriarty said as he lost interest in Sherlock and wandered over to Lyra.

Lyra resisted the urge to cringe as he raised his hand to softly stroke her cheek. Sherlock looked at Moriarty like he had just killed his mother.

After a moment, Moriarty seemed to decide something and leaned in closer. Lyra thought it best not to scream for help.

It was disgusting, all wrong and twisted. He had probably never kissed anyone before, Lyra thought. She tried her best to be convincingly interested, but it was one of the hardest things she had ever done. The hardest thing she had ever done, she thought as he moved in closer.

For Sherlock, she thought. For Sherlock's life. In that moment, she realized she would do anything for him. It didn't make any sense- she has only known Sherlock for a bit more than a day- but nonetheless her feelings were true.

She was in love with Sherlock Holmes- the very man watching her snog his archenemy.

Finally, Moriarty pulled away, but left his hand on her face. "Interesting," he whispered, letting his hand rest there for a moment, then whipped around, prepared to rub it in Sherlock's face. But he was nowhere to be found.

"Have you run off, then?" He shouted after him. Lyra felt some energy trickling back into her, but saved it. She would need it later.

As soon as Sherlock saw what was happening between them, he had run. Touching her cheek made him feel bad enough- though the reason for that escaped him- and when they started to kiss... he wanted to throw things. Rip all his hair out. Curl up in a ball and stay that way for days.

Yet he had no idea _why_.

Resting his head against the window, he waited the few minutes it took to get to Baker Street. He closed his eyes and tried to swallow the emotion. It didn't work.

Sherlock finally fit his key into the door to his flat with shaky hands and started up the stairs. He hoped John was home- his presence always reassured him.

As Sherlock walked through the door frame, his eyes swept the room, but no avail. Then he remembered it was probably only a bit after five in the morning. John was still asleep. He walked over to John's bedroom door and knocked softly. "John," he said, forcing his voice to be steady as he cleared his thought, "I need your help."

A few hours later, John and Sherlock were eating ice cream, playing Balderdash, and picking fun at detective movies.

John looked up at Sherlock. He could relate to this type of hurt- heartbreak. "You feeling any better?" He asked gently.

Sherlock nodded curtly. "Considerably." He paused. "Thank you."

John smiled. "Want to pop down to Angelo's?" Sherlock nodded and stood up to go get his coat and scarf.

As usual, the food was on the house, but even so Sherlock didn't eat much.

"Okay," John said, pointing to the couple across the way, "what about those two?" Letting Sherlock show off cheered him up and let the true Sherlock shine through- arrogant, brilliant, and absolutely stunning.

"Siblings, not a couple. Remarkably similar facial structures. Woman is has a ring and is married, man is not. Her brother has just moved into town from America, going by his accent - Wisconsin, to be more specific- and came here with his sister to catch up on things while-" His voice choked to a stop, his eyes trained to the front of the store.

"Sherlock?" John said, following his gaze and understanding his reaction immediately. Entering the shop were Lyra and Moriarty, holding hands and laughing. How cliché, he thought wryly.

Moriarty practically dragged Lyra over to Sherlock's table. For Sherlock, she repeated to herself- just like she had countless times for the last three, painful hours. For Sherlock. Moriarty will kill Sherlock if he thinks I'm attached to him in any way, just out of jealousy. How childish.

"Mind if we join you?" Moriarty asked, already sitting down.

"A double date," Lyra added with a smirk, and Moriarty laughed. Watson looked annoyed. Sherlock was avoiding her eyes.

Lyra gathered up the energy she had been saving, her eyes locked on Sherlock. This was the moment she had been waiting for. Inhaling, she released her energy and watched Sherlock intently for his reaction.

A wave of dizziness crashed into Sherlock. He gripped the table for support as his eyes closed involuntarily and he saw an image flashing in his mind, taking ahold of him, pushing all his other thoughts away. Two words.

_I'm Sorry._

Gasping, he opened his eyes and returned to reality. Lyra was looking at him intently, and this time he looked right back. He deduced she had sent those words purposefully, as a message.

Sherlock blinked at her- conveying his understanding. Sherlock thought he knew what the words must mean. His feelings for her were not returned- she was sorry for his pain but simply did not love him back. And that's when Sherlock realized that's what it was- love.

A crushing feeling started to build up in Sherlock's chest, and he feared he would suffocate from pure force of emotion. A voice brought him out of his state.

John. It's John. "Sherlock? Are you okay?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Sherlock said, his weak voice not really helping his case much. Watson just looked at him. In Sherlock's eyes he saw a silent plead. Save me.

"We'd better go," John said to Moriarty, who smirked and put his arm around Lyra. Her eyes immediately went to Sherlock. He had found something very interesting on the other side of the room and was busy studying it. "Enjoy... yourselves," John finished awkwardly and stood up to leave.

"I'll keep in touch," Moriarty called after them, not even bothering to turn around.

Lyra gathered the last of her energy. She had to make a choice. She could use it to fend off Moriarty, and make this 'relationship' less painful, or she could send Sherlock another message. The choice was simple, and the decision was made fast.

Sherlock blinked as more words flooded into his brain, momentarily taking complete control over him. Three words were all that existed. Three words.

_I Love You._

**Tips are appreciated. :) Hope you like the story so far.**

**The final chapter shall be coming soon, I promise!  
**

**If I may, check out some of GoggleBox's stuff- her current story is a killer JohnLock, if you're into that kind of stuff. :)  
**

**=^..^= TruffleHead **


	5. Rain

**Thanks for sticking with this! :) Read on...**

~ CHAPTER FIVE ~  
Rain

Sherlock's bow flew easily over the violin's strings, filling the flat with sharp, fast melodies. He wanted to think clearly. He _needed _to think clearly. Why would Lyra say she loved him, when she obviously didn't? Wasn't she the one who kissed Moriarty right in front of him?

He decided to think about something else. He set his violin down on the sofa and checked his phone. Lestrade still hadn't texted him; there must be no cases. He picked up his violin again, this time picking an even faster, harsher melody. Loud, painful notes squeaked out at alarming rates.

John stumbled out of his room. "My god, Sherlock, what is it?"

Sherlock just continued to play his violin, while wind and rain beat furiously against the side of the flat, seeming to agree with John.

John sighed. "Sherlock, I think you need to go take a walk. Get some fresh air." He wrestled the violin out of Sherlock's hands and practically pushed the whining Sherlock over to the door.

"I am _not _going outside in the middle," Sherlock said, "of a thunderstorm." A loud boom made the house shake, adding to Sherlock's point.

John thrust Sherlock's coat into his arms. "Trust me. Get away from these four walls for a little while." Sherlock let out a long, complaining sigh, but got his coat on.

"Would you like me to go with you?" John asked, although he already knew the answer.

"I'd… prefer to be alone." Sherlock said, tying his scarf around his neck. "Spare one of us from getting drenched." John nodded and headed back upstairs.

Sherlock headed out the door started to walk down the streets. He was getting pretty wet, but it was actually quite relaxing. Wet droplets stuck to his hair and eyelashes as he walked through the streets, deducing random people as he went along. John had been right: he felt better already. Rounding another corner, however, he saw something that made his accumulative mood drop down to zero.

It was Lyra. Standing there, wet to the bone, shivering like mad, and all alone.

Lyra looked up from her Spaghetti towards Moriarty. He was busy typing away on his phone, chuckling darkly. He had been paying less and less attention to her lately, like he was getting bored with the whole 'relationship' thing. _Figures,_ she thought. _With a mind like his that, he couldn't possibly keep interest in a girl for very long._Lyra thought this through, though, and the thought began to scare her. If Moriarty lost interest in her, would he turn his attention to Sherlock again? What would he do to him? She searched herself and felt that she had a little bit of energy within her, still. Maybe she could impress him with a little trick?

She looked around the room, surveying the people eating around them. She would have to do something cruel, she knew, and the thought hurt. Moriarty was that kind of man, though, and nothing less would catch his interest. _For Sherlock,_ she thought, _for Sherlock._She chose her victim- a middle-aged young man, sitting across from them.

Gathering up her petty energy supply- the Spaghetti helped a bit, but she was still weak from Sherlock's messages- she closed her eyes and drummed her fingers on the table in concentration. Somebody screamed, and her eyes resisted the temptation to flash back open. She made him think of the worst memory he had, and replay it. Over and over and over again. She felt kind of sick, but opened her eyes and put on a poker face for Moriarty.

Moriarty looked over his shoulder slightly at the man making the tortured sounds, smiled a half-smile, but was still focused on his phone, obviously plotting some poor soul's murder. Her energy ran out, and the man stopped screaming. She felt light-headed from over exerting herself.

A couple minutes later, which felt like seconds to still-dizzy Lyra, Moriarty laughed and muttered something like, "Got you know, Raymond," and all but ran out of the restaurant. Lyra paled. She hadn't been enough. Moriarty had gotten bored.

Sherlock. Her thoughts went to him first, gobbling up all other stray emotions. She knew the horrible things Moriarty could do to people, and simply for the fun of it. Eventually, he would turn to Sherlock, and she shivered at the thought of him in the hands of Moriarty. Panic filled her, and she could feel herself starting to hyperventilate.

She took a deep breath. _Pull yourself together, _she ordered herself. _Don't just sit there; Do something about it! _Standing up on shaky legs, she walked out the door and outside the restaurant.

It took her a while to realize it was raining. The soft pitter- patter of the raindrops slowly sank in, and the distant booms of lightning finally registered themselves within her exhausted brain.

Lyra lifted her sopping arm up to inspect the glistening raindrops, and suddenly realized how cold she was. Crossing her arms for warmth, she shivered, wondering if it was wise to go back to her apartment or not.

Her breath caught as she looked up and saw Sherlock, standing there across the street. Through the rain and her blurry vision, it was harder to identify people, but she was sure it was him. He seemed... scared, or hesitant. Suddenly, then, he turned around, and started to walk back the way he came.

_No,_ she thought. _No. _She started speed walking, or really it was more like frantic stumbling towards him. Moriarty was occupied enough; it was safe to approach him. She _needed _to talk to him, or at least get another good look at him.

Lyra ran now, her feet splashing in the cold puddles of rainwater as she yelled, "Sherlock!"

Sherlock slowly turned around to face her, and realized how scared he was- scared of his confusion and his utter ignorance of what she was going to do next. What stopped him, though, is his hope. Hope that maybe she'll react in the way he wanted her to.

Lyra finally caught up to him, and stood next to him for a moment, admiring how good his hair looked in the rain as it sheeted around them.

"Did you mean it?" Sherlock asked loudly over the noise of the rain, asking about the message she sent him earlier. If he was going to do what he intended to, he needed to be absolutely sure.

Lyra caught on immediately. He's standing here, looking at me with those gorgeous gray eyes and he's asking _me..._

"Yes." She said, not needing a moment to think. "Of course I did, Sherlock." Lyra paused, realizing something. "I'm sorry if it upset you."

Sherlock made a sound that sounded like a desperate mix of both a scoff and a snort, and then half- smiled, as if he were sharing a joke with himself.

"I'm sorry if _this _upsets you," He said, most of it meant as a joke, but part of himself meant it for real- this was going to be extremely bold of him. Normally, he wouldn't have a problem with that, but this matter seemed... different, more delicate. He couldn't just make snap decisions on a whim anymore and not really care about the outcome- but he was fairly certain this was for the best. At least, he hoped it with all his heart.

Then, gently, lent down to kiss her. For real this time.

**You know how I said this was the last chapter? I lied. :D**

**I had a strange plot twist in mind that I couldn't help but write, so the ending has temporarily moved itself. :) Hope you don't mind.**

**=^..^= TruffleHead**


	6. The Eye of the Storm

Her eyes kept nervously flicking over to Sherlock, who was walking back to 221 with her. He seemed happy with himself; in fact, he was pretty close to literally radiating happiness.

They came around to the familiar door garnished with a gold 221 B. Sherlock unlocked the door and both Lyra and himself stepped inside, where they both pulled off their sopping wet jackets and shoes.

Trying to ignore her shivering arms and chattering teeth, Lyra started to climb the stairs towards the living room, but Sherlock's hand on her shoulder stopped her. God, what she wouldn't do for just that hand.

"Lyra," he started solemnly. Lyra raised an eyebrow, wondering where this sudden serious mood was coming from. "I just wanted to... forewarn you," He hesitated for a moment, then said the rest of his sentence fast, as if he wanted to get it out of the way. "I've never experienced any sort of relationship before, and I didn't want you to expect more than you're going to get. I would understand if you wish to leave me now."

Lyra laughed, and Sherlock looked hurt. "Oh- no, Sherlock, don't be upset. I understand; I'm just laughing at the absurdity of it all." She wrapped her arms around his skinny form tightly. "Sherlock," she continued, closing her eyes as she buried her face in his damp chest. "I love you."

Sherlock didn't know how to react to that, at first. A warm feeling of euphoria swept through him, and although he had no idea why this had happened, for once he didn't care one bit. No, what he cared about was the girl in his arms. Science would wait.

Sherlock hugged her tighter and brought his mouth closer to her head. "As I you," He whispered, never having spoken truer words in his life.

John froze, not believing the sight before his eyes. Sherlock was lying down on the couch, sleeping silently, curled around Lyra, who was also sleeping. The first thing that came to mind was how odd it was that they were sleeping on the _sofa_- it was a bit small, and not nearly was comfortable as a bed.

John's second reaction was a slow smile. He didn't think he'd see the day when Sherlock would fall in love. He stepped quietly into the kitchen, careful not to wake the lovebirds. He chuckled to himself. Sherlock- a lovebird.

This day wasn't starting off too bad.

As he stepped back into the living room with his hot cup of tea, he saw Sherlock's icy gray eyes open for a second. Processing John's presence, Sherlock blinked at him once, then closed them again, shifting slightly and tightening his arm around Lyra.

A few seconds later, Lyra sensed the movement and her eyes fluttered open. She whispered a quiet, "Hi," to John, and he smiled warmly back. He noted Sherlock's eyes were now open again.

"Would you like some tea? I just made a cup," John said, holding out the still- scalding light liquid. He would make himself another cup.

Lyra reached out her hand and took the mug, muttering a grateful, "Thank you," as she sat up and nonchalantly kissed Sherlock on the cheek.

"So..." Watson said, not really sure what to say but determined to say something, "looks like the walk went well, after all."

Sherlock didn't feel like being crabby, so instead he replied simply, "Yes, quite well; thank you, John."

"If I may," John asked, clearing his thought and plopping himself in his chair, "Why did you two sleep on the couch last night?"

There was a moment of silence, and then Sherlock answered softly, "I felt that sleeping in the same bed together seemed to imply things that I was not sure if Lyra was not comfortable with."

"So the sofa is fine, then?" John asked, baffled.

"Yes, it suited us fine. Neither one of us was uncomfortable with whatever... subtext was implied, to put it in your terms, John, and yet we were able to maintain a close proximity to each other." Sherlock responded.

John laughed, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Whatever makes you happy, Sherlock."

A sharp ringing woke Lyra up with a start. Her eyes flew open, and part of her brain recognized her ring tone. She reached her hands over to the table, grabbing blindly. Who was calling her in the middle of the night? Her searching fingers found the phone and clumsily flipped it open.

Lifting the device to her ear, she muttered groggily, "Hello?"

"You know that they're coming for you, right?" Her brother's husky voice hastily muttered.

"Ben? What are you talking about?" She asked, still half asleep.

"_Them, _Lyra. I happened to overhear..." Ben's voice stopped suddenly as some shouting began to get louder in the background. "You need to go, Lyra. Now!"

Lyra leapt off the couch, waking Sherlock, who stood up a second later, concerned.

"What on earth were you thinking, Lyra? Black magic in a public place- on an innocent man, no less?" Ben continued. _Oh,_ Lyra thought. _That's what this is about._

"It's... complicated," She said.

"Yeah, tell _them _that," His brother replied. Lyra could hear more shouting in the background. "You've got to move, Lyra. You know what they could do to you when they find you."

The phone disconnected. "They're coming," Lyra whispered.

**=^..^= TruffleHead  
**


	7. Rotten Taxi Service

"Who?" Sherlock asked, moving closer to Lyra. She looked up and met his eyes, and the terror was easy to read. He tried his best with deduction, but doesn't come up with much. "Who's coming, Lyra?" He repeated, placing his hand on her shoulder and looking deep into her eyes, trying to get her to tell him.

"I've got to run," Lyra said quickly, looking away and stumbling over to get her coat on. Sherlock didn't hesitate to get his own on either as Lyra scurried off into the street, her mind using the adrenaline to operate even faster. Where would she go? Back home would be idiotic. Underneath some bridge like a homeless person? Another foreign country?

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Sherlock hailing a cab. Where did he think he was going to go?

"Sherlock," Lyra said, exasperated and stressed. She did not cope well under stress. "Wha- Get back inside!" She snapped.

Sherlock just looked at her, and it was obvious he had no intention of doing so.

"Please, Sherlock?" She asked, knowing it was mean to be using him like this, but she couldn't let him come with. The people coming after her were elves with little tolerance for humans. The ways they could punish her were insignificant compared to what they would do to him if they suspected he had helped her. She felt the overpowering urge to step over to him and wrap her arms around him again, this time never letting go. At the same time, however, she was suppressing the urge to go over to him and push him into the flat with everything she had in her.

When the words left her mouth, she expected his face to immediately turn into that familiar torn expression. Instead, his face determined and set on whatever he had decided, Sherlock came up to her, grabbing her hand, and whispered a fervent, "No." He pulled her into the cab that had just pulled up.

"So," Sherlock said casually once they had gotten into the cab, "where, exactly, are we going?"

Lyra looked at him, annoyed but also slightly flattered. Her face grew solemn and she looked out the window as she said, "Somewhere where I can hide."

He grimaced, because he knew someone who could help them, but was reluctant to ask him for help. Sherlock sighed in annoyance as he prepared to tell the cabby Mycroft's address. That's when he realized something was very wrong. The cab was already moving- above the speed limit, too-, and he hadn't given it any directions. Sherlock's hand tightened around Lyra's. "Where are we going?" He growled. The cabby looked up, smiling malevolently.

"Ah, so you've figured it out, then? Certainly took you long enough." The cabby said, scoffing, "Moriarty said you were a genius. Then again, you've got your… distractions." The cabby's gaze flickered over to Lyra and his smirk grew more defined.

"He's kidnapping people through cabs, then? That's hilarious." Sherlock said, his voice dry, remembering his last case involving cabby serial killers.

Lyra couldn't think straight; what did Moriarty want with them? He had grown bored with her, right? Unless… he had changed his mind? The thought scared her; Moriarty had definitely seen that she and Sherlock were together. Lyra looked up to see that Sherlock was looking at her. His eyes were apologetic, even though technically none of this was his fault.

The cab screeched to a sudden stop in front of yet another old warehouse. Moriarty, along with Sherlock, sure loved to be dramatic. "Here we are," the cabby said almost gleefully. It was borderline creepy. Okay; not borderline. It was creepy.

Lyra and Sherlock both got out of the cab, Sherlock holding her close because he knew that Moriarty's first move would probably be to separate them- his stomach physically hurt at the thought. Why, he had no idea. Again. Being this ignorant about something made him a little edgier than normal.

The moist air blew their hair in all different directions as they followed the cabby inside the building and were graced with the presence of the man himself: Moriarty.

Moriarty smiled at them when they entered. "Ah, there you are, dear," he said, walking over to Lyra and making a point of taking Sherlock's arm from around her waist and putting it at his side. "Because, you see," He whispered, his head close to Lyra's, "I wasn't quite finished yet." He kissed her temple.

If looks could kill, Moriarty would be dead a thousand times over. Sherlock's eyes were filled with liquid magma, yet he stayed exactly where he was.

"Alright then, sweetheart," Moriarty continued, his previously tender tone gone, "let's get you downstairs." He let go of her and gave her a push in the direction of the door on the opposite side of the room.

"Oh, how creative," Sherlock said, his voice scathing, "You're going to hurt her to get to me? Is this your whole 'burn the heart out of me' plan?"

"No, no, no," Moriarty said, his voice swimming in disappointment, "She's come to mean something to me, as well. I won't hurt her… _too_ bad." He resumed smiling his got-you-now smile. He snapped his fingers – he really like doing that- and one of his henchmen came and grabbed Sherlock. "Catch you later, Sherly," he said, and disappeared where Lyra had just gone.

The next day passed without any sort of disasters, which worried Sherlock. All he did was sit in a cell, bored to death. He was given food, he was allowed to sleep undisturbed, and he wasn't even subjected to any unusual form of torture.

However, he was lonely. Excruciatingly lonely. After all, he had just found love, and to have it ripped away from him only a day later was, well, he didn't know what to think anymore. His whole life, he had called himself a 'sociopath', and pretended not to care. But now Lyra- and even John- had crawled themselves under his skin and made him vulnerable to loneliness.

The feeling was terrible.

**=^..^= TruffleHead  
**


	8. Ten Seconds

**This chapter switches points of view. :)**

SHERLOCK

After the initial wave of loneliness was over, Sherlock felt a dull fear for Lyra getting stronger the more he thought about it. What was Moriarty doing to her? Even just being forced into Moriarty's company was bad enough- but Sherlock had a bad feeling in the bottom of his stomach that told him this wasn't the worst he could do.

LYRA

Sherlock was right; Lyra wasn't being simply forced into his company anymore. In fact, they had only kissed once- at the memory of this, Lyra squeezed her eyes shut- before she had been thrown into this cell.

She was cold- freezing, agonizingly cold. Lyra shook as she swore it dropped yet another degree.

But what about Sherlock? Lyra knew Moriarty had more of a grudge against Sherlock than on her, and whatever he was doing to her, she realized, terror seeping into her bones, Sherlock's would probably ten times a worse.

Lyra swallowed, wincing as her throat screamed in protest- she hadn't gotten a drop of water since she had arrived here, and it was taking its toll on her condition. On top of this, she desperately needed a comb. Shivering, she pulled her knees up to her chest and tried her best not to drown in self- pity.

Lyra had thought about using magic to dampen her throat, but almost immediately cast the idea aside. She would most definitely need it later, and until the serious danger of dying from dehydration entered the picture- which actually wasn't far off- she would save it for when her life was in danger. Or, of course, Sherlock's.

Would she die for Sherlock? The question popped suddenly into her head, and she wondered if she could answer it. She wondered if she would like the answer.

She let herself smile as she thought of the man. The soft, dark curls that bounced around as he moved- always gracefully, although she doubted he was even aware of it being so. He was far from modest, she thought with another smile, yet sometimes he could think of himself of so much less than he really was, and it just made her love him more. But would she die for that handsome, elegant man?

Yes, of course she wanted to protect him, and she would do the best she could at the job- it's not like she wanted him to get hurt. It pained her to think about what was happening to him now- surely Moriarty had something planned for him. The images that her mind conjured up made her want to cry, and she knew she wasn't nearly as creative as Moriarty. But protecting someone was a whole heck of a lot different than laying down the rest of your life for them.

But she loved him, right? Didn't that automatically constitute her willingness to sacrifice herself for her love? Or... didn't it?

No- it didn't. The answer she found in her heart then, although completely true, made her feel like a liar or a cheat.She wouldn't die for Sherlock Holmes. It was a plain and simple fact. What did that make them, then? What did that make her?

Maybe it was because they had just met. After all, she had claimed her feelings after only a few days. Maybe her 'love' wasn't really true?

No- her whole being denied that. She loved him- there has been evidence of that nearly right after they met- but she wouldn't lay down the rest of her life for the man. However, Lyra thought, they would just have to let this feeling grow.

As soon as she completed her resolve, the door burst open.

"Sherlock!" She shouted, seeing the familiar curly- haired man enter. Immediately, she was in his arms, and complete euphoria and warmth overswept her for a moment, but then he took his arms away and instead placed them on her shoulders. "What-" She started to say, but stopped whatever she was going to ask when she saw the look he was giving her.

His eyes shone through with pure_ love_, the gray blue spheres seeing her, wanting _her_. It scared Lyra that this much pure emotion was directed simply at her; why her? She looked back at him, embarrassed to reciprocate not nearly as much. It's not as if she didn't care for him, not by a long shot. She loved him, but his emotion for her came in huge, overpowering waves.

She was way over her head. If she was ever taken away from him- if she left, was killed, or something of the like- he would be broken. Broken beyond something that was able to be fixed.

Sherlock started to reach his hand up, to touch her face, probably, but she was so caught up in the thoughts of what would happen to_ him_ when she was killed (because she thought this fate inevitable) that one, lone tear rolled down her cheek.

SHERLOCK

After a day of sitting there, probably far too close to peacefully for Moriarty's liking, Sherlock thought, they came to get him. He knew it was bound to happen sometime- he knew he was in for it.

He was surprised, then, when they simply took him to an empty room and left him there. The room was nearly identical to the last, save for this one had a... window. Stepping quickly to the window, Sherlock saw Lyra- she was shivering like mad, and he could see she had her arms wrapped around her knees to keep her warmer.

Pressing his hand to the glass, he noted the smooth surface was freezing- the other room was a lot colder. Considerably colder. "Lyra," he murmured in sympathy.

"10 seconds," Sherlock heard a voice say behind him. Sherlock didn't even turn around- he recognized that voice, and it didn't deserve his attention.

"I'll let you have ten seconds together, 'cause I'm generous." Moriarty continued, trying to bait him. Sherlock listened with half an ear, most of his attention still on the elf in the opposite room.

"Give you a chance to catch up, you know? Exchange the latest gossip." Moriarty determinedly went on.

There was a pause, where both men refused to speak. Finally, bored with Sherlock's lack of response and eager to get to the punch line, Moriarty spoke again. He walked up behind the detective and put a hand on his shoulder. "Of course, silly me, there is a catch." He leaned in closer, whispering now, "Not a word from you, Sherlock. Not. A. Word. Else let's just say Lyra's room will get 20% cooler- and I'm not sure poor Lyra would be able to take it. After all, hypothermia's not that far behind even now. Why kill her, you say? Well," He said, gesturing at her crumpled form, "Well, I guess I lied a wee bit. You see, I am done. This whole 'dating' thing is overrated." He smiled slightly, happy with himself.

Sherlock looked up, glaring, "Such an elaborate plan." He said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Oh, yes, because that's the entire plan," Moriarty shot back equally as facetiously, giving Sherlock a look that said be-quiet-so-I-can-finish-showing-off. "You know I just love a good game, Sherlock. Why should this one be any different?" He paused for a moment, taking his hand away to prepare to deliver the final piece of the plan. "Make her cry, Sherly, but don't say a word. I'll keep in touch," he said, stepping quickly out of the room, his presence quickly replaced by guards.

Sherlock felt himself, once again, being hustled out of the room, but was too caught up in his thoughts to really notice- or care. He knew what Moriarty was getting at; what was the one way that was really possible to make someone cry other than to_ harm them_? His face paled at the thought. He could try ignoring her- but then again, he only had ten seconds, and that's not enough time to really actively ignore her. Besides, would Lyra really start to _cry_ if he simply ignored her?

He was faced with an impossible choice- or, rather, an astonishingly easy one with an solution he couldn't accept. Hurt Lyra enough to draw tears, or let her succumb to hypothermia.

_Magic_! He thought suddenly; surely this could keep her safe? Then, he was reminded at how exhausted she was when she tortured that man from the restaurant. Her magic had limits, and he would probably do good not to push them too far.

Sherlock ground his teeth, desperately thinking of another way out of this. There has to be another way out of this? His time was out, however, as the guards released their hold on him and gave him a nice shove towards a door.

"There's the pretty lass' room," One scruffy voice called to him as they walked out, "Best of luck to you. Your ten seconds start when we leave."

Sherlock spun around, not waiting to watch them leave as he burst through the door they had shown him to, feeling sick to his stomach. Immediately, he saw her, still huddled in that corner. He rushed over to her, and her head snapped up. _One, _he started to count.

"Sherlock," she tried to shout, but Sherlock noticed her voice was raspy, deprived of water, and probably food. _Two._ Unable to help himself, he pulled her up into his arms for a moment, relishing the feeling of her slim body against his_- finally_, but he did not fail to notice it's alarmingly frigid temperature. _Three._ He wanted to keep her in his arms, but this was taking far too long already. He could not risk her death. Come on, Sherlock, his inner John- conscience scolded. _Four._ Do you _want_ her killed? He pushed her away- far too soon- and took a minute to look into her eyes. Her beautiful, shining green eyes that held so much emotion, so much feeling. She would feel this, he thought. _Five._ Going against every single cell in his body, he raised a hand up, still holding her gaze. _Six._ His inner John was going nuts on him now. He didn't know if he could do it.

But then, he didn't have to- a single tear rolled down Lyra's cheek.

Sherlock could have jumped for joy; then he realized she was_ crying_, and shook himself. He gently put his fingers on her cheek, "What is it?" He asked her. She just shook her head and smiled weakly, trying to convince him that nothing was wrong. Furrowing his brow, he asked again, concern coloring his baritone voice, "Lyra?"

If she had wanted to answer, she couldn't have. A voice came blaring into the room, on some sort of intercom, and as it spoke he could feel the room gradually heating up. "Ah, enough fun for now, my friends. We have work to do!" Moriarty's voice ended, the door burst open, and the guards came through, beckoning for Sherlock to exit. Sherlock's eyes lingered on Lyra for as long as possible, but soon she was out of his sight. His mood dropped considerably.

LYRA

Lyra watched him go, guilt, for some reason, flooding her system. The room was heating up, making it exponentially more comfortable, however she didn't feel any better inside.

Jumping, she suddenly heard a loud voice boom inside her head, "So, I guess I should be arresting you, but I think it s clear you aren't guilty."

**Yeah- if you caught that MLP reference, I couldn't help myself. The opportunity arose, and I couldn't help myself.**

**=^..^= TruffleHead**


	9. Stories and Promises

It had been two months since their capture by Moriarty, and yet it could have been two years for all they thought about it.

The rescue wasn't anything particularly amazing; the elf who had been sent to give Lyra "justice" had apparently been spying on Moriarty for quite some time, and even an idiot could have gathered that what had happened was not… entirely her fault. They had _killed_ Moriarty, though, and that scared him more than anything else. The elves had an odd justice system.

For example, after a painfully long interrogation session, they were both simply released to go home. Sherlock had been glad, at first. He hadn't known how much longer he could have stood that boring, metallic room.

Probably not nearly as long if it hadn't been for Lyra.

Nevertheless, he nearly ran to the doorway when the elf said they were free to leave. Then he realized that if Lyra was free to go home, Baker Street wouldn't be where she was headed.

He was surprised, then, when she also popped out of her chair and hooked her arm in his. She cocked her head at his unmoving hand resting on the doorknob and back to his face.

'You alright?' A soft voice echoed in his head. He smiled the tiniest bit and nodded and audible words, this time, followed. "Well, to Baker street it is, then." Lyra's smile was deep and genuine. Well, then. He would cherish what time they had left before she decided to go home to her family. It would be inevitable, of course, but that was a conversation for a later time.

And that was how life continued for a good long while; until one day, when Sherlock was in the living room, working on an experiment, he the living _daylights_ were scared out of him. Sobs were escaping his bedroom. _Lyra's _sobs.

Jolting himself out of his seat, he rushed over to the door and yanked it open. "Lyra, what in the world happened?" He asked, more or less slamming the door shut and walking over to put a hand on the side of her tear- streaked face.

She _smiled _through her tears, confusing him all the more. She was subconsciously rubbing her fingers and an open laptop lay open in front of her. Had she been doing a lot of typing?

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, I didn't mean to scare you. I'm fine, honestly." She said, her voice a little breathless from her recent weeping. Sherlock didn't look in the least convinced.

Lyra laughed. "No, really Sherlock, it's alright." She took her hand and grasped his, pulling it gently away from her face. Instead, she placed it on top of the computer. His gaze flickered down to it. "Just a bit of writing."

Sherlock spun the laptop around and raised an eyebrow at the text; it wasn't in a language he could read. "For fun?" He asked while trying to identify the language.

She nodded and hummed her affirmative as she reached up with her hand to wipe her tears away. "It reminds me of home," Lyra said with another smile, "Where storytelling was the best skill you could have."

It occurred to Sherlock that he hadn't ever asked where, in fact, was her home. And yet another question struck him out of the blue. "Why did you ever leave?"

She raised her eyes to meet his. "I was curious to see what this relm was all about. People had told such wonderful stories... some false, of course, but some were true." Her smile deepend. "Someday I shall take you there."

Sherlock's eyes shined, and for once his thoughts were not entirely occupied with all the experiments he could preform. "Where?"

"It's called... Alfheim. Land of the light elves." Her eyes were proud. Sherlock sat down next to her and rubbed her shoulder.

"Someday," He said quietly. "Yes, that would be wonderful."

"Yes, but not today." Lyra said, her sparkling green eyes looking out the window and her head moving to rest on Sherlock's shoulder. "Today is too wonderful to part with."

***tips hat* Thank you, wonderful person. You are my new best friend. :) Leave a review, if you'd like; they're helpful for me to improve.**

**=^..^= TruffleHead**


End file.
